


Corpse Husband (WT)

by theLadyLazaruss



Category: Corpse Bride (2005), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crime Scenes, F/F, F/M, Graphic Description, It gonna be filth dw, M/M, Monster Hannibal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-22 14:50:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21078602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLadyLazaruss/pseuds/theLadyLazaruss
Summary: In an isolated house, in the outskirts of the village of Wolftrap, lives Will Graham. Our hero has the face of a Caravaggio angel, with the temperament of a particularly cankerous slug, and he would rather be left alone to his dogs and his solitude, but with the death of his father, he stands to lose his sanctuary to a distant cousin. He has to marry the beautiful, bright and kind, Molly Everglot, the heiress to his estate and his fiancé since childhood.But death clings to Will and hangs from his shoulders like a cloak of shadows…Claws sharp. Teeth gleaming.





	Corpse Husband (WT)

**Author's Note:**

> The Corpse Bride AU nobody asked for!
> 
> This is currently a WIP and I am posting it to keep myself accountable. Updates will hopefully be at least bi-monthly, but please be patient with me（ －||－）
> 
> This is the first big story I'm undertaking so any feedback and encouragement would be greatly appreciated <3

_The darkness was roiling, velvety smooth and creamy, gushing at his feet, flashing with heat and sharp with cold as it crawled its way up his legs, inching and creeping. No amount of thrashing could shake its advance and Will sent soil and snow flying as he churned at the forest floor, nails scraping through the inky blackness, snapping branches, and grating himself against the trees. _

_A fist full of talons drew itself from the darkness, a stretched parody of his own bloodied hands, and delicately, gently, lovingly, curled themselves around his neck, rose up above him, and pulled him to his knees –_

Will Graham bolted upright in his bed. The fierce cold steamed over his drenched skin, concentrating on the throbbing heat that bulged his boxers. He was awake, he knew he was, but that velvet darkness hadn’t completely left him, and hugged in close, greedily sucking the edges of his consciousness, reluctant to let him go.

Will arched in the bed, dirt stacked nails curling into the soiled bedsheets. All around him, his house _humm_ed and settled into its foundations, its surrounding forest rocking in the quiet wind.

He should get up. He should shower, clean, and exorcise himself, but his limbs were too heavy. His head fell to one side and the clock blinked beside him and marked 3:56am.

There was a crime scene waiting for Will. He could almost see it. How the blood crystallised into the snow, how the exposed organs congealed, how the empty eye sockets stared at the sky, cavernous where they had once been filled.

There was a body waiting for Will.

He wondered who it would be.

“Andrew Caldwell,” Jack Crawford grimly stated, staring down at the cleaved body. Its legs were missing, gory intestines splayed like a blooming flower over the train tracks. Snow flecks sprinkled the aging meat, and officers and coroners all moved around them, keeping a careful distance, shiny and buzzing. The lined tracks were formidable, disappearing into various branches all around them and the detective adjusted his hat, scanning his notebook, as if to extract more information from his busy handwriting. “He was found two hours ago by the train master. Cause of death was shock and blood loss.”

“He was alive when he lost his legs,” Will said, his mouth moving with his thoughts, “alive when he lost his pelvis.” Jack’s stare prickled the back of his neck. “It’s the Ripper, Jack.”

And the sheriff nodded, grimace deepening. “That’s the second.”

“Two down,” Will whispered, “one to go.”

“He’s been moving north for the last two cycles, climbing up the state. Why would he come back now?”

“Whimsy,” Will sighed, gazing down at the corpse. There was such a care here. The splatters of blood, the exposed ribs, the empty eyes. It felt almost mournful. The sombre melancholy of fading piano notes on cathedral walls. Pain scrunched the muscles of Caldwell’s face, tracks of crystals down blue cheeks, and Will could almost see where a thumb had smeared them. The Ripper had made this man cry for him.

The detective raised an eyebrow. Incredulousness sat easily in Jack, his world view bolstered and fed by the tired scrutiny of a man who had to force himself to be surprised anymore. Will could probably tell him he ran naked through the woods, and Jack wouldn’t even blink.

Jack opened his mouth to speak again but two officers rushed to him, both vibrating with eager determination. Their names were Price and Zeller, amongst the best in the business in the entire county and Jack took a slow, mollifying breath before he was assaulted by their natter.

“Jack!” Price exclaimed, unsubtly bumping his partner out the way as their feet almost tangled in the snow. “The train conductor reported no suspicious comings or goings last night, but he did mention there was supposed to be a two thirty security round but–”

“Bradford never showed,” Zeller cut in, nose pink with cold, “he was found in the Duscan road alley, two miles from here, his head dusted in, dressed in his long johns.”

Jack frowned. “Rather graceless for the Ripper, Will–”

The loner was making those doe eyes again, looming above the Ripper’s corpse with fascination. Jack could almost see the images flickering in his corneas as he lost himself, the tangible around him falling away.

Jack wanted to get back to the facts. He was comfortable with facts.

“The Ripper knew the timetable, knew the security rounds,” Jack said, a little louder than he intended, and Will jerked. His fingers creaked in his worn gloves. “But then is there anyone in Wolftrap who doesn’t know the timetable and security rounds?”

Will shrugged. He didn’t.

When Will didn’t answer, Jack sighed, and looked back over the freezing body. It would need to be moved soon.

“Who are we looking for, Will?” Jack asked, “Wolftrap is a small town. Somebody must have seen something.”

And Will, silently, disagreed. Nobody saw anything. The local doctor was stolen, mutilated, and exposed for winter bite, and nobody saw anything. Wolftrap was an old town. It may be growing in trade and fresh faces, but the old stories still lingered. _Cast spilt salt over your shoulder, _the wise voices said, _count your steps past the Church, don’t wear red on a Sunday. _

_Don’t go into the woods after sundown._

Superstitions that would be mocked in the big cities, where the clanging mechanics and gaslights held the old world at bay, but the old world still sung here.

Caldwell didn’t go into the woods. Even a man of science wouldn’t be silly enough to tempt fate here, but he did linger in dark places. Rumours of malpractice, drunken shakes, and spilling tears from young girls. It was only a matter of time, really, before something got him.

“Why the Ripper?” Jack asked, and Will jerked out his reverie, brushing his fingers against his lips as if to still his thoughts. “Why are you so sure it’s the Ripper?”

Caldwell wasn’t well loved, but his loss meant a halving of their tiny clinic, and it was an especially brutal winter. This death was only the beginning. For some reason, Will knew more bodies would follow.

“It’s the Ripper,” Will muttered, quiet, but sure as steel, and Jack followed his gaze. Lined like a boundary line, the Wolftrap forest swayed in the quiet wind.


End file.
